


The Trees And The Trees And The Space Between The Trees (Swimming In Gold)

by skyline



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aliens, Angst with a Happy Ending, Howard would rock a tiara, Jarvis just wants Howard to shut up and kiss him already, M/M, Peggy gives solid advice, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Sousa really wants to know how this is his life, Unrequited Love, invisible animals, lots of yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The alien extends a handful of crumpled wildflowers. Petals drift to the ground in a flurry of false snow. “I believe it is your custom to give gifts.”</p><p>“Gifts for what?” Peggy asks, suspicion writ large all over her face.</p><p>“For my proposal to your Howard Stark,” the alien says, voice echoing and majestic. “I would like him to be my queen.”</p><p>(Or, the one where Howard and Jarvis work out their long, angsty history amidst the most benign invasion ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trees And The Trees And The Space Between The Trees (Swimming In Gold)

This is how it ends:

 

There is a frog in his tea.

“Jarvis?!” Howard hollers, watching the tiny amphibian blink bleary eyes, soaked in oolong. “Jarvis, come here please?”

“You said please.” Jarvis appears by his side, the steady hover of really good help a comfort in this time of what-the-actual-hell. “Surely, Armageddon approaches.”

“Har, har. What is this?” Howard points at his cup. The frog ribbits, punctuating his ire.

Dutifully, Jarvis replies, “Black tea, with a hint of lemon.”

“Right, but inside the tea.”

“Other than the lemon?”

“I’m not kidding around. Jarvis, what is this?”

Jarvis purses his lips. He looks like he thinks this might be some kind of bizarre pop quiz. Then he says, “Sir, if you’d wanted a whiskey chaser, you should have been more implicit in your instructions.”

This situation is surreal. Howard doesn’t even like tea. But Jarvis is on a health kick and arguing with him feels like butting his head against a brick wall, endlessly. Now, this. “Screw the whiskey. Jarvis, the frog!”

“The…frog?” Jarvis asks, the skin between his eyebrows knitting together.

“The frog.” Howard rattles his teacup for emphasis, sloshing onto the saucer.

Jarvis tracks the movement. The frog provides a helpful croak.

Which makes it even more galling when Jarvis asks politely, “Which frog might that be, sir?”

“This one?” Howard tries to push the tea closer to Jarvis’s face. “You’re not blind, man. It must’ve escaped from the menagerie, or something.”

“That’s always a risk, when you keep a zoo in your backyard. However,” Jarvis appears to search for words, and come up short. “There isn’t a frog.”

“Of course there is.” The frog ribbits, filling the air with noise. Its bug-eyes blink up at Howard, mocking him. “It’s right here.”

“Sir,” Jarvis tries, layering on about eighty pounds of tact, and still that dry, English wit of his remains entirely too prevalent. “Sir, perhaps a visit to the doctor-“

“You know perfectly well that the only person who gets to stick me with needles is myself.”

“I know perfectly well that your mulish attitude won’t hold up when you’ve come down with the pox,” Jarvis mutters.

“What was that?”

“I said, maybe a trip to your lab is in order. So you can stab – yourself – with needles.”

The frog makes a mournful noise.

Howard pokes at it. Its hide is solid and slimy to the touch. “Curious and curiouser.”

* * *

 

“I’d like coffee,” Howard tells Jarvis, conversationally. “Seeing as how my tea came with eye of newt.”

“Don’t be ludicrous. Coffee is an abomination, and a newt is an entirely different breed of amphibian.”

“Jarvis.” Irritably, Howard breathes out through his nose, silently asking the universe to grant him tranquility in the face of things he can’t change, like Edwin Jarvis giving him lip. “What’s the opposite of a raise? Because I could give you one.”

“You wouldn’t dream of it,” Jarvis replies prissily. “Ana would see you drawn and quartered.”

“I’ve had worse from a woman.”

Inwardly, he winces. The threat is real; Ana can’t stand a single thing about him.

Howard can’t even say he blames her.

“I’ll mention that to her, shall I?” Jarvis asks, voice bright.

He nearly allows a grin to slip out when Howard shudders, but cold professionalism saves the day. Jarvis’s mask stays firmly in place. Isn’t that a shame?

Howard returns his focus to the frog, whose eyes have gone suspiciously round. It might not know what a laboratory is, but it does appear to get that this place isn’t safe for squishy, invisible creatures. Its ribbits sound distinctly panicked.

“That’s right, little guy,” Howard tells it, scooping him up from the teacup. The edge of his words peek from under the cuff of his shirtsleeve, but Howard is so used to ignoring them that it’s an art form, now. “Fear me.”

Jarvis frowns at what must, to him, seem like Howard’s empty hand. “I’m sure the wretched thing is shaking in its boots. Is it wearing boots, sir?”

Put-upon, Howard says, “The frog isn’t wearing clothes, Jarvis.”

“Just checking.” Jarvis holds up his hands, and the gesture is so melodramatic that Howard snorts, quietly. Jarvis continues, “But for the sake of clarity, will we be running your vitals now or after I see about your French press?”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling things here.”

“Yes, it’s not like you’ve ever blown up a workstation,” Jarvis says, a mite offensively. “I don’t know why I’ve bothered with concern.”

“You think I’m going to make anything go boom checking my blood pressure?”

Seriously, Jarvis says, “Hallucinations make men do funny things.”

Howard waves it away, Jarvis’s scorn and the idle thought that he might be going insane. “Rest assured, if I incinerate anything, it’ll all be in the name of science.”

“Right.” Jarvis’s fingers encircle his right wrist, a brief, nervous gesture. He shifts from foot to foot like a confused nanny goat.

“Coffee, Jarvis,” Howard orders. It makes him weary, bossing his own butler around.

It wears on Jarvis, too. His expression turns reproachful, hard, and hurt.

Stiffly, he says, “Yes. I’ll fetch that, sir.”

* * *

What is interesting about the frog is that, as far as Howard can tell, it doesn’t exist.

“None of the tests I’ve run so far are working,” he explains, and Agents Sousa and Carter nod their heads like this is a reasonable assessment and they’re not at all considering having him committed.

“Did you need to call them?” Howard demands Jarvis, and if he’s whining, well, then that is his right in his own damn house.

Jarvis bristles, “They were right upstairs-“ only to be cut off before he can mount a real defense.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course Mr. Jarvis was right to call us.” Peggy stomps all over Howard’s protests, because that’s pretty much her favorite thing to do. Howard glares balefully up at her. Serenely, she adds, “Don’t be a child, Howard.”  

“Am I a child, or am I crazy?” Howard asks, glowering. Yet again, he wonders why he asked Peggy and her team to come live at his mansion, where they enjoy the lap of luxury and he enjoys their sass. “Don’t answer that. I’m not crazy. Where’s Angie?”

“This isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse,” Sousa says delicately, which Howard takes to mean they still haven’t told her that they’re artists, and their craft is spying.

He’s pretty sure she figured it out ages ago, but until Peggy spills the beans to her, or Angie ‘fesses up right back, Howard’s content to watch that little Greek tragedy play out. He spins his chair back towards the frog, muttering, “What’s next, what’s next? Magic? It could be magic. Right. I hate magic.”

“You really think it’s magic?” Peggy asks. Her hand lands on Howard’s shoulder, grip strong. She’s asking, genuinely, not mocking him.

So, just as sincerely, Howard says, “Could be. Could be something else I haven’t tested. Have to rule it out.”

“We’re…ruling out magic? Are those really words that need to be said now? Out loud?” Agent Sousa wonders, and there’s a mournful note in his voice that makes Howard think the poor guy is completely out of his depth. He beseeches Peggy, “But what if we moved?”

Peggy pins him with her warm brown eyes and a considerable amount of fondness, comingled with sarcasm.

He sighs. “Fine, fine. I won’t pack the china quite yet.”

“Thank you, darling.” Peggy turns back to Howard and Jarvis. “Any idea what’s going on?”

“None whatsoever, aside from the,” Howard wiggles his fingers, conveying heebie jeebie creepiness as extravagantly as possible. “It can’t be magic, though,” Howard tries, like he can convince it not to be via sheer willpower. “Magic is simply science we can’t explain.”

Peggy does not look even a little bit fooled, because Peggy was in the war.

Well, okay, everyone in the room was in the war, but Peggy was special operations, along with Howard and _Captain America_ , and they saw more than their fair share of things science will probably _never_ be able to explain.

For Sousa and Jarvis’s sakes, she keeps mum, and Howard? He’s got enough government agencies on his back that he’s inspired to keep his mouth shut. About magic and plenty of other things besides.

“What if,” Sousa starts, and Howard already doesn’t like where this is going. “What if it’s not magic? Or science?”

Silkily, Howard replies, “If you’re implying I’ve lost it, you wouldn’t be the first.”

“I’ve said no such thing,” Peggy interrupts. Thoughtfully, she adds, “Today.”

Sousa turns his head to the side, biting back laughter, and Howard takes Peggy’s words for what they are. Of all people, she understands how deeply Howard knows his own mind. If he truly thought he was cracking, she’d be one of the first she turned to.

The frog makes a sad noise, tired of playing lab rat. Howard scowls down at it, an insult on his lips. Then he stops.

“What if…?”

“What if?” Peggy prompts. “Howard?”

She peers over his shoulder, like if she squints hard enough, she’ll be able to see.

“Alien in origin,” Howard explains. “It could be a cloaking device.”

“You already checked for that,” Jarvis says, patiently.

“I checked for terrestrial technology.”

“Alien?” Sousa howls.

Peggy shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jarvis worries over a tray of beakers, arranging and rearranging the glass. Howard can see the black script at his wrist, every slant exaggeratedly large.

He bites his lip and glances away.

* * *

 

“Tea,” Jarvis says firmly, pushing it into Howard’s hands.

Since Howard is in the middle of trying to rub exhaustion out of his eyes, it sloshes everywhere, the cup battered about by the insistent motion of his knuckles. Jarvis frowns reprovingly at the mess.

“That doesn’t look like coffee.”

“You’ve had five cups.” Jarvis thrusts the teacup at him again, and this time, Howard takes it. “You’re overworking yourself.”

“Oh, that’s a headline that’d make it above the fold.” Howard wrinkles his nose and takes a sip of the tea anyway, since his butler is determined to mollycoddle him.

At least this time, the tea doesn’t have any passengers.

When he says so, Jarvis exhales heavily.

He’s convinced that Howard isn’t above board on this; that he’s losing it. Peggy and Sousa were much more enthusiastic supporters, before they trundled off to bed. He glares, trying to convey with his disdain that the scientific process much prefers cheer over surly disbelief.

Jarvis is unmoved, the barbarian. At least he keeps it to himself. Out loud, the only thing Jarvis does is ask mildly, “No progress, yet?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’m onto something, with the alien lead.”

Jarvis hesitates. Then, “If it’s a…a…cloaking device, sir, why are you the only one uniquely suited to see through it?”

Howard smiles wanly. He’s wondered that himself.

He hates feeling vulnerable. If he sits here and stews over what Jarvis is really asking, then he’ll go mad for certain. In a quiet murmur, he says, “In the morning, call our man at Civil Defense. See if they’ve got a beat on anything…strange.”

“Strange,” Jarvis repeats, tasting the word. “Sir, wouldn’t Agents Carter and Sousa be well informed on the issue of anything…untoward…in the area?”

Howard sighs. “Above their paygrade. Thompson plays things close to the vest, especially if it is alien. And we can’t ask _him_.”

Bemused, Jarvis replies, “Why ever not? He has access to every record in the SSR, and Civil Defense besides.”

“And he’d help us…why?” Howard asks. “You know Jack’s a bit of a narcissistic sociopath, right?”

“Those are traits you value in yourself.”

Fair enough. Howard shakes his head, “I’ll give you a guess about how forthcoming he’ll be with that information, Jarvis. No, I’ll even tell you the answer, and that is not at all.”

“Your faith in people continues to astound,” Jarvis retorts. There is frost in his words, the icy cold edge he gets when he thinks Howard is being an idiot, but he won’t lower himself to say so.

Jarvis never used to be so proper.

“If I’m hit with a flash of inspiration, I’ll let you know. You should go home. Go back to Ana,” he says, visualizing Jarvis’s beautiful, vivacious wife, whose smile saws Howard in half, every time he sees it.

“Ana has an alternate engagement this evening,” Jarvis says, voice strained. He slides back one of the laboratory chairs, folding his arms over the edge of the workspace. Black script swims in and out of Howard’s vision, taunting him from the pale skin at Jarvis’s pulse point. “You won’t rid yourself of me tonight, I’m afraid.”

Howard frowns. Without meaning to, his fingers dart to the cut of Jarvis’s cheekbone, the curve sharp, but soft. He traces the bruised, tired skin beneath Jarvis’s eyes, trying not to revel in how he feels like everything that was ever sun warm and good in the world. “You’re exhausted.”

Jarvis flinches. “All the same, sir.”

His expression is grim, familiar. It’s the same face Jarvis wore as a soldier, across the glittering sea, with days old grime on the bridge of his nose and a deep, deep dislike for the arrogant American contractor who showed up in his commanding officer’s tent.

Howard clamps down on that memory before it goes any further. There’s no use remembering; it always ends the same way. 

Tiredly, he says, “Then buckle up, pal. We’re going to be here a while.”

* * *

The frog is an alien frog. At least partially. The blood tests – the second set that Howard runs, because the first involved cells that weren't visible under the microscope, or the light spectrum Howard was working with - but then he hadn’t known what to look for – confirm it.

Jarvis purses his lips. “I don’t see anything.”

“You can’t see the invisible cells from the invisible frog in the very real microscope,” Howard agrees, because that’s about as much sense as his life can be bothered to make most of the time. “But the computer can.”

He knocks on the side of the clunker, which takes up the entirety of the laboratory’s back wall, and then some. Howard built it himself, and those vacuum tubes were a chore. Then again, his is a fair bit more advanced than ENIAC, although Howard doesn’t begrudge those guys at UPenn for taking credit.

Jarvis regards the computer with suspicion. “I’m not convinced that isn’t an oversized farce that you’re pretending is clever.”

“Who would I be impressing with it?” Howard scoffs. “You’re the only one who comes down here.”

Jarvis grimaces. “Your mad scientist den isn’t the most inviting. I could-“

“You’re not cleaning in here.”

“But if I-“

“No, Jarvis.” Howard swivels back and away from the desk, tilting his head up to meet Jarvis’s gaze. “You’ll disrupt my science.”

Dry as the desert, Jarvis replies, “Surely your science could take a hint of bleach.”

Howard glowers. He is about to launch into a lengthy diatribe about how he is the head honcho around here, and as the person paying Jarvis’s rent, he’d like a little less lip, when Peggy and Sousa come tumbling down the stairs.

Peggy, ever the consummate professional, has nothing but her bright eyes to give her away. Sousa, on the other hand, is sporting mussed hair and a crooked tie, and- “You were necking on my stairwell,” Howard accuses, horrified. “I’m the only one who gets to do that.”

Peggy absolutely glimmers with delight, while Sousa ducks his head abashedly. Neither denies it, because then they’d have to lie, and it’s not like they’re not spies, the both of them. Howard says, “I’m kicking you both out. I’ll keep Angie, though. The girl makes a mean waffle.”

Jarvis makes an indignant noise. Howard pats his arm without thinking. “There, there, dear.”

They freeze, the both of them, the contact unexpected and vaguely like heat lightning, like a rainless storm building under their ribcages. It’s like that sometimes, when Howard doesn’t brace himself for it. When he’s not prepared.

He pulls back his hand as though he’s been burned, clutching it to his chest. Too cheerfully, he says, “Right, so, I expect you’ll want results.”

Peggy, who hasn’t missed a thing that’s passed, crosses her arms. She’s judging, probably. She’s very good at judging, seeing as how she is basically an ass-kicking saint. Howard sulks and wishes that Steve were still here. His holier-than-thou act always trumped hers.

But Steve is dead and Peggy is the reigning queen of all things just, so Howard brushes right past her magisterial dissatisfaction and says, “The frog is terrestrial in origin, but I found evidence of bacterium that can only be otherworldly.”

“You’re shitting me,” Sousa says, face glowing like a small boy at one of the Expos. Howard always loves to do things with a bit of flash, just to see the way the kids light up.

And the girls.

He’s a big fan of the girls.

“I shit you not,” Howard replies. “My equipment correlates it, and, even better-“

“Why can’t we see him, if he’s a normal frog?” Sousa demands, cutting off what Howard meant to be a grand pronouncement. “Is the bacteria masking him, somehow?”

Howard’s shoulders droop. He tells him, “You have no sense of the dramatic, soldier.”

Sousa rolls his eyes heavenward. “Whatever was I thinking. Please, deliver the good news unto us peasants, Stark.”

Peggy snorts, the most unladylike he’s seen her in ages.

Howard ignores them both. Peons. “Thank you. As I was saying, this little guy-“ He pauses, really letting it sink in. “-brought friends.”

“What?”

“The bacterium carry a cloaking mechanism. It’s all very complicated, I won’t bore you with it. But it had to have come from somewhere, and.” Howard preens, “Jarvis, do the honors.”

Reluctantly, Jarvis tells them, “Civil Defense reports a light, seen to the west of the manor, several days past.”

“A light?” Sousa asks skeptically.

Howard flashes a winning smile, but Peggy has long been inoculated against it, and Jarvis refuses to drop his overall demeanor of Inordinately Displeased long enough to be swayed. The effect is wasted on everyone but Sousa, who can’t tear his gaze from Peggy long enough for it to really sink in. Oh well. Win some, lose some.

“A light,” he confirms. “An anomaly, right on the edge of my own grounds.”

Peggy clears her throat.

Howard amends, “Our own grounds,” and again, he ponders what he was thinking, inviting a whole host of strangers to live in his mansion. Most of the time, they’re so quiet, he forgets they’re there.

Others, Angie gets sloshed on his good whiskey, or Sousa decides to cook, or Peggy gets a little handsy with the custom detailing on his automobiles.

“I think we should call Jack,” Sousa decides.

Howard and Peggy scowl at him, immediately. In this, they are a united front.

“We don’t need Agent Thompson’s help,” Peggy snaps.

“He grounded her, again,” Sousa informs the rest of the room. “She deserved it this time. A little.”

Outraged, Peggy rebukes him, “I was not manhandling that cretin-“

“Then why did his collarbone break?” Sousa asks sensibly.

“Weak bones?” Howard suggests, trying to be helpful. Peggy smacks his shoulder. “Ow.”

Jarvis tenses beside him, all empathy, while Peggy protests, “He was evading capture.”

“I don’t blame him. If I saw you coming, I’d – _ow_!”

Sousa winces and laughs, a short, harsh thing. “Quit while you’re ahead, Stark.”

Howard rubs his shoulder. It’s going to bruise, he knows it. “This is being ahead?”

He can hear Jarvis’s huff of genuine laughter behind him, and the pain recedes.

“We’re not calling Agent Thompson,” Peggy repeats forcefully. “But Angie might be of assistance.”

“With aliens?” Howard cocks an eyebrow.

“With searching the grounds.” Peggy acts like this is the obvious answer. “She likes to walk them in her spare time, you know. She calls it her escape from the city.”

“Not to steal Miss Martinelli’s thunder, but I think I know the grounds better than anyone else present,” Jarvis says. When Howard makes a noise of protest, he smoothly adds, “Including Mr. Stark.”

“Then we can split the search evenly,” Peggy says. “Mr. Jarvis, why don’t you go with Howard, and I’ll take Agent Sousa and Angie.”

“You call your boyfriend Agent? Kinky, Peg.”

This time, no one looks the tiniest bit sympathetic when Howard yells, “Ow!”

* * *

 

Howard picks through the underbrush that surrounds the manor and says, “Maybe we should go back to California.”

Jarvis makes a noncommittal noise.

He’s been making a lot of those, mostly when Howard points out yet another animal that no one else can see. It turns out there’s a whole zoo loosed on his property. An invisible zoo. Howard clearly needs better keepers for his menagerie.

“I know my directorial debut faltered-“

“Bombed. It bombed, sir,” Jarvis says, mercilessly. He’s forging ahead through the growth, making prissy proclamations about the height of the weeds, and how he’ll throttle the lawn service the next time they’re in, but out here, in the sunlight, he looks marginally more like the soldier that Howard met in Europe.

Strait laced, to be sure, but willing to get his hands dirty.

A grin comes to Howard’s lips, unbidden, and for that single moment, he doesn’t think of any of the things that have transpired since then.

That’s about when a zebra walks by and it all comes rushing back. Happiness is overrated anyway. So Howard continues, “But the sun was always shining.”

Jarvis grunts his agreement.

Howard steps over a serpent and says, “There weren’t any aliens.”

“Indubitably.”

“And Ana seemed happier there.”

Jarvis stops short, leaves and vine-type things crackling beneath his feet. He sounds rather constipated as he allows, “She was not so averse to avocados as I.”

“See? California,” Howard says. “We should go back.”

“She was less of a fan, I think, of being shot at.” Jarvis turns on his heel, and he there is anger in his eyes, the brown at their center flaring out into the blue. The heterochromia of Jarvis’s gaze always fascinated Howard. Back when he was permitted to be fascinated. “We’re not going back to California.”

“We’re not?”

“No. We’re going to find this alien lifeform, whatever it may be. We’re going to wring its neck, for making anyone question your sanity-“ Jarvis’s expression is wild and guilty, and it’s clear that by anyone, he means himself. Howard takes a step forward. “And we’re staying in New York, because we’re locked into a two year contract with investors and if you back out, they’ll take you for everything you own. Including me.”

“You’ve thought this through.” Howard clears his throat and adds a bit guiltily, “We might want to check on the lion, later, as well.”

At least the grounds are enclosed.

Even so, Jarvis takes a long, bracing breath and says, “I told you we didn’t need a lion.”

“He’s the king of the jungle!” Howard protests, the tail end of an old, old argument. Then he says, “It’s not your fault.”

“Of course not.” Jarvis bristles, but then he considers, “What isn’t my fault?”

“Thinking I was…hallucinating, or whatever it is you thought.”

“I was concerned.”

“I know.”

“Only slightly, you understand.” 

“That’s natural,” Howard agrees, but he is holding his breath so hard that it hurts, because Jarvis is in his face, up close. Closer than Howard remembers him being in ages, and.

It’s painful, how perfect it feels. Jarvis’s exhalations against his lips tastes of sunshine and evergreen, the humidity of a New York summer tempered by the citrus tang of all the cleaning supplies he lugs around the manor all day. His presence turns Howard’s bones liquid, and his sternum is so quicksilver light that it feels like his heart might pound its way free of his chest.

Jarvis sways minutely closer, so that Howard can see the rings of his irises with perfect clarity, that oceanic blue, and that earthen brown comingled. There’s too much there; his overt concern and sharp wit, and the quiet intelligence that drew Howard in, way back when. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

Jarvis steps back, and if it seems like the effort visibly exhausts him, then Howard won’t remark upon it.

He grimaces at a poor, invisible porcupine and asks, “See anything that looks like an alien?”

Jarvis glances above them, at the summer canopy of trees, thick with green and practically blotting out the sun. “I see that we need to invest in some garden shears.”

“You’re grumpy.”

“Yes, well. I hate avocados.”

* * *

In the end, finding the alien isn’t as hard as Howard had supposed.

Perhaps because he’s about eight feet tall, with skin the color of the setting sun. His broad, naked chest, is a canvas of hues that glow in the golden light filtering through the trees.

Also, he’s been expecting them.

“Howard Stark,” the alien says, face impartial. “The man that built the atom bomb.”

“I had help,” Howard says, like it’s no big thing.

Angie, the intrepid explorer who tracked the creature down first, looks at him. Then at Peggy, and then back at Howard, and then a bit skeptically at Sousa and Jarvis, and then back at Peggy. She says, “I can take the Cold War, English, but I don’t know about this.”

“Hush, now.” Peggy pats Angie’s arm, standing in front of her a mite protectively. “We’ll talk later.”

“Good plan,” Angie agrees, and the alien opens its mouth to speak again.

“You are writ large across our history books,” the thing tells Howard impassively. He doesn’t appear to be especially impressed by the fact, but Howard’s about to swoon because he’s _universally awesome_ , and also this is a future alien, so that’s something. “I knew I could come to you for help.”

“Help?” Interest piqued, Howard asks. “What kind of help?”

“Maybe don’t offer a hand just yet,” Peggy hisses, the fingers of her free hand wrapped around his forearm.

From his peripherals, Howard can see Sousa observing her mother hen routine with quiet pride. Those two are so disgustingly made for one another.

Howard shakes her off anyway. “I wasn’t planning on an assist if his next question is _how about a friendly round of genocide_ , Peg.” To the alien, he’s casual, easy. Unbothered. “What can I do you for?”

“My ship has crashed.”

Howard bows his head in acknowledgement. “I can fix it,” he says, and it’s not arrogance on his part. Not really. Not when he’s never met a machine he can’t work with.

“Your offer is kind, and accepted,” the alien replies. “But that is not the help I require. I came to your Earth on a mission.”

“Does it involves explosions?” Howard asks through gritted teeth, because Peggy has a really strong, really _expressive_ grip on him. It wouldn’t kill her to file her nails down. “Because my friends here aren’t fond of explosions I haven’t caused.”

“We’re not fond of explosions you have caused,” Sousa mutters, audibly.

Jarvis choruses his agreement. Traitor.

“I mean your world no harm.” The alien straightens its posture. “My people search for a regent, and I, a wife, now that I have come of age. We seek a new sovereign, one as kind, just, and brilliant as she who came before.”

“Okay,” Howard says, blinking. He’s not sure how to process this, but hey, if the alien wants to date, that’s his prerogative. To each his own and everything.

“I sent messengers. Visible only to my intended.” The alien says, and Howard’s stomach begins to do this thing, where it is sinking, even as his brain helpfully perks up, spitting out facts and figures, connecting every dot. The alien extends a handful of crumpled wildflowers. Petals drift to the ground in a flurry of false snow. “I believe it is your custom to give gifts.”

“Gifts for what?” Peggy asks, suspicion writ large all over her face.

“For my proposal to your Howard Stark,” the alien says, voice echoing and majestic. “I would like him to be my queen.”

* * *

“This isn’t how I expected my life to turn out.”

Peggy’s touch is light at the back of his neck, “We all have missteps, as we grow older.”

“I don’t mean it existentially! I mean, I never, ever expected an alien from the future to ask me to be his queen.” Howard buries his face in his hands. “I’m not ready to be queen. I’m still so young.”

She recoils. “Howard, you can’t be serious.”

They’re in the sitting room, just the two of them. Sousa cut a hasty tactical retreat the moment they got back and it became evident that Peggy was bursting for a heart-to-heart. Angie took a little longer, but that’s mostly because she was making cracks about sewing Howard’s wedding dress.

Jarvis hovered near by, hands clenching and unclenching. Howard could sense the helplessness rolling off of him in waves, but he didn’t know what to do. It got so bad that he finally sent the man to make some dinner for the rest of them. He went with a lingering air of distress, coupled with resentment at the dismissal.

Howard is going to pay for that, later. Now, he turns to Peggy and says, “I’m not serious. How could you ever think I was serious? You know about me-“ he glances down at his wrist, the writing behind the cuff of his shirt mocking him. “You know that I. I can’t.”

Peggy’s expression then is the softest he’s ever seen her wear. Not since Steve disappeared beneath the black, arctic waters, has she looked so gentle and wrecked. “You can, you know. People will try to intimidate you. They’ll throw their weight around, bully you into corners if you…embrace it. The trick is not to give up.”

Howard knows they aren’t talking about his future as an alien bride. “It’s not as easy as you say.”

“Be brave, Howard.” She touches him again, her fingertips cool and light. “I know you are. I’ve witnessed it.”

“Wartime is a different. It’s time out of time. We’re allowed things that we can’t have, in the normal world.” He’s not talking about marriage either. At least, not his own. The tattoo on his wrist flames in memory; little things and hurts he’d long thought he was over, all of it shaded in the hue of Ana’s veil when she walked down the aisle. “Life is a horror story. Especially mine.”

“You can’t think like that. It’ll work out. You’ll make it work out.”

“Are you trying to tell me that if I’m clever enough, I can think my way out of this, Peg? Because that’s not how the world works. Believe me, I know.”

“No. Not at all.” Peggy holds her chin up high. Howard’s always admired that; how nothing can cow her. “What I’m trying to tell you, Howard, if you’ll listen, is to be courageous. Don’t back down, not ever, not even when you think that you can’t fight anymore. Be bold, and those bullies will think twice. At most, you’ll find yourself in far fewer corners.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” Howard agrees.

“But not to the point of being anyone’s alien queen,” she amends. Her dark eyes are big and overflowing with worry. “Never fake it that far.”

“I dunno. I’d work a tiara.”

“ _Howard_ ,” she warns.

“I tried, you know?” He sighs. “Back during the war. I told Jarvis that we could…” He swallows. It’s been too long since he admitted to how much this hurts. “That we could survive.”

“What did he say?” Peggy asks, even though she looks as though she already knows.

“He’d…already met Ana. He promised her a life.” Howard can’t hide it now, all these open wounds gaping wide. “He wouldn’t go back on that. Not even for me.”

“It’s part and parcel of what makes him such a good man.” Peggy adds thoughtfully, “And you took them in, here. I suppose that’s what makes you-“

“Don’t say good. I’m not- _that_. I think maybe I asked Jarvis to work for me is because I thought, with enough time, he’d…Well. There’s a reason I’m not much of a gambler,” Howard says. He’s never heard himself so bitter. “I tend to put all my money on the wrong horse.”

* * *

Howard makes a face. “I need to hide the tea.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Jarvis shoves the teacup in front of his nose. “It’s good for your immune system.”

“So is Echinacea, but I don’t take that five times a day.” Howard glances up at Jarvis’s pinched expression. Then he says, “Fine. Give it here.”

“No need to accommodate me,” Jarvis says, sounding so wretched that Howard feels guilt creep hot and uncomfortable beneath his collar.

He seizes upon the awkward to set his cup aside. Flatly, he inquires, “What’s wrong?”

“Quite a lot, I’d say.”

“Specifically.” Howard replies, tone brooking no nonsense.

It’s his employer voice, the one he rarely, if ever pulls out with Jarvis because…because it feels like with the way the odds are stacked, he’s already got too many advantages over the other man. He’ll make jokes about signing Jarvis’s paychecks, or assign him random, ludicrous tasks, but for all the menial tasks and petty punchlines, Howard won’t ever really be Jarvis’s boss in earnest.

It’s wouldn’t be fair.

Besides, what he didn’t tell Peggy was, even if he hadn’t hired him, Jarvis still would have followed Howard across the world, Ana in tow. He obsessively caters to Howard’s every whim all on his own, taking care of him like he was born to it. Even when Howard says _no_.

“You hate the monarchy,” Jarvis sniffs. “You say nothing compares to _freedom_.”

Howard relaxes back into his chair. “I know. But I’d be such a benevolent dictator. And imagine this fine head of hair framed by a crown.”

“Jest. Certainly. Fantastic.” Jarvis’s lips press into a thin line; he’s about as impressed with Howard’s wit as he is with his attempts to make soufflé.

To be fair, the last time Howard tried that, Jarvis was scraping chocolate off the ceiling tiles for days.

“I sense – and, tell me if I’m wrong here – that you’re peeved.”

Jarvis’s eyebrows shoot up. “Peeved, is it? That’s what you think I am?”

Howard hisses an insult. He’s not exactly navigating Jarvis’s snit with grace, here. “Did I guess wrong?”

“Mr. Stark.” Howard winces, recollecting a time when Jarvis called him many choice words, and none of them ever began with mister. He’s livid, now, face red, and breathing hard. It’s too much for his decidedly English constitution. “I regret to inform you that I feel your judgment in this matter is compromised. Heavens forbid you gave even an iota of consideration to the rest of us mere mortals, you priggish, pigheaded man.”

The insult is too close to what he said when they first met, when Howard was talking shop with a general in Jarvis’s unit, the prices for his tech outrageously high, and Jarvis accused him of being a war profiteer, of trying to cheat the British Armed Forces out of all they owned. The remembrance hangs between them, stilted silence thick in the air.

Finally, Howard says, “Gee. Tell me how you really feel.”

Jarvis makes a noise laced with so much frustration that Howard can’t help but take pity on him.

“Calm down, would you?” Howard coaxes. He pats the arm rest of his chair, goading Jarvis into sitting, which he does, albeit starchily. “You’re worried.”

“Picked up on that, did you?”

As soothing as he can be, which isn’t very, Howard says, “There’s no need for that.”

“That- that creature wants to take you to another world. There is very much a need for anxiety.”

Ever reproachful in a crisis, Jarvis is. Howard laughs and loops an arm around his waist. Before he can even recall why it’s a bad idea, he ducks his head against Jarvis’s side, muffling the sound of his delight. “Don’t ever change.”

“Stick around and find out if I do,” Jarvis challenges.

He pets the top of Howard’s head, stroking his hair like he might to a child, or someone he was tremendously fond of. He’s leaning into his body, and tucked into Jarvis as he is, the clean, spicy scent of him is overwhelming.

Howard says, “’m not going anywhere.”

Jarvis’s lips brush the top of Howard’s head, and Howard can’t quite catch his breath. He listens to the rapid-fire drum of Jarvis’s heartbeat, abruptly unsteady as Jarvis asks, “You don’t want to be a bride?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere you’re not,” Howard says, and it’s as honest as he knows how to be.

Jarvis pulls away. The dark, lush shadows of Howard’s sitting room create hollows under his cheekbones, the lamplight manifesting a green pallor against his skin. He is watching Howard with hooded eyes and so much want that it’s torture. “Promise me.”

Howard strains up, centimeters from Jarvis’s mouth before he realizes what he’s doing. He angles his body for a hug instead, something tight and solid and real, and while Jarvis returns it, Howard hopes that he cannot hear the thunder of his pulse or feel the way his blood heats his skin, embarrassment and desperate desire all mixed.

“I promise,” he says shakily.

He’s trembling, but Jarvis doesn’t call him on it.

* * *

The moon arcs high overhead when Howard sneaks out to see the alien. It’s hard making his way across the grounds when he’s scared he’s going to step on a snapping turtle, but somehow he manages, finding the clearing they met in before.

The alien is still there, and still mostly naked, so that’s encouraging.

“I can’t accept your proposal,” Howard tells it. He really does regret refusing, because sex with an alien would be an experience, and also he would make a kickass queen. “It was very kind of you to offer.”

“Explain,” the alien says. “You are unwed, for the moment-“

“For the moment?” Howard squawks, thinking of his name _writ large_ in the alien’s _history books_. “Are you trying to steal me from my future wife?”

Assessing, the alien tells him, “I cannot answer that. It would shape the course of your future.”

“Oh, sure, be cryptic. If this is the kind of romance I can expect from our union, I’m glad I’m nipping it in the bud.”

It peers down at him, the motion of head jerky and unnerving. “I cannot follow your reasoning.”

Yeah, that makes him and about a billion other people.

Resignedly, Howard clarifies, “I can’t marry you. There’s someone here I can’t leave.”

“Who?”

Howard carefully folds back the cuff of his shirt, peeling it away from his wrist. He holds up his hand, palm out, to expose the thick, black scrawl.

They’re Jarvis’s first words to him.

More distinct than any other introduction Howard has ever had; insults that move in time with Howard’s pulse.

The very act of exposing them to the night air and the stars makes him feel vulnerable in a way he thought he’d lost. Back when he dreamed about who would say these words, and why, and whether they’d truly want to be with a man like Howard Stark.

All that wasted time…

The alien blinks in surprise. “This was not written in our books.”

“A man’s got to have secrets,” Howard replies primly.

“But you’ve found the owner of those words.”

“Yes,” Howard says quietly. “I found him a long time ago.”

“Yet you do not make him yours! You’ve been disrupting the natural order of things,” the alien says, his eyes flicking again to Howard’s wrist and then back to his face. “You cannot exist as a whole without your soul bound. Not even on my world.”

Howard tenses. “Nothing and no one will tell me how to live my life.”

The alien nods, as though this is a sentiment it can respect. Maybe it is.

“I shall continue on my quest. It is a shame, Howard Stark. You would have made a fine companion.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Nearby, leaves rustle, a deer peeking its head through the shrubbery. Howard wonders if Jarvis would be able to see it, or if this too is an escapee.

He grins. “By the way, if you could uncloak the menagerie, that would be ideal. There’s a lot of paperwork involved if the lion eats my neighbors.”

* * *

In the weak morning light, Howard finds Peggy sprawled across a loveseat with a cup of tea clutched between her fingers. Howard will likely never understand what it is with these British types and their poor facsimile of coffee, but he can’t resent her for it. Not before noon.

“All settled, then?” She asks upon spotting him.

“Everything’s sorted.” He plops down beside her, and she shifts with a warrior’s grace.

Not for the first time, Howard thinks about how strong she is. A woman from a family of soldiers, who loves soldiers, and is the best of them, herself. Howard doesn’t know if he’s ever admired anyone more.

Even Steve.

Of course, he’s uniquely blessed, in that he’s absolutely swimming in stubborn, bullish patriots, from the star spangled man with a plan to every Agent of the SSR that drifts through his door, right on down to the bespoke human being whose words are written on his wrist.

Howard rubs the script absently, an old habit.

In the next room, he can hear the soft rumble of a woman’s laughter. “Is Angie on the phone?”

“Rose.” Peggy quirks an eyebrow. “The two of them get on like a house on fire.”

Howard shudders. “Isn’t that a combo. How’s Angie handling-“ He waves his hand a bit vaguely. “Life?”

“Better than Daniel, I dare say.” Peggy kicks her heels onto Howard’s lap. He doesn’t massage her calves, the way he might with any other dame. She’d kick him in the nuts so hard he’d feel it in his ears. “He’s having trouble adjusting to the existence of the extraterrestrial.”

“Yeah.” Howard sucks air through his teeth. “Salt of the earth, that man.”

Peggy bumps her heel against his thigh, goading. “What’s your next move?”

There’s no missing her implication. Howard rolls his eyes skyward. “Who says I’ve got one?”

“Howard,” Peggy flicks his shoulder with one carefully manicured fingertip, careful not to jostle her tea. “Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m being practical, Peg. Jarvis had the right idea. I will have to marry, at some point – not to an alien,” he hurries to say, “But to a flesh and blood woman. I can’t leave my estate without an heir. The technology here would pass into the government’s hands, or the SSR’s, and I don’t trust any of you as far as I can throw you.”

It’s a joke, but a poor one. Peggy does not laugh.

Howard tries, “This is for the best.”

“I can’t imagine you as a father,” she says.

“I’ll probably be a terrible one.”

Peggy inclines her head in agreement. She never did pull her punches.

Then she says, “Ana knows.”

“What?”

“Ana knows. And she’s given Mr. Jarvis leave to…do what he must.”

“How do you know this?”

“How do you not?” Peggy’s exasperation is fond. “Where do you think she goes in the night, when she runs off? She’s searching for her own bliss, and giving Mr. Jarvis leave to enjoy…well. I don’t know if I’d call you bliss.”

Howard looks towards the kitchen, where Jarvis is likely fussing over the state of his cutlery and brewing ninety pots of tea.

He doesn’t dare to hope, because hope has let him down too many times.

Only, the seeds of it have already taken root. These words, from someone he trusts – too much like permission –  prompt him to his feet.

He says, “Peg, I’m gonna go see my man about…er.” He searches for a reason to hunt down Jarvis, but Peggy smiles knowingly, and he understands that he doesn’t need one. “I’m just going to go see my man.”

* * *

Jarvis is hovering over the sink, scrubbing a particularly greasy pan. His shirtsleeves are rolled up his forearms, the tight, hurried scrawl of Howard’s first words – in Howard’s own hand – black and prominent against his wrist.

Howard clears his throat. “Jarvis.”

“Sir!” Jarvis jumps, the pan splashing into the full sink below. Hesitantly, he says, “Not in outer space yet, then?”

Shaking his head, Howard tells him, “I sent the alien away.”

“Did you work out what to do about the lion?”

“We’ll go on safari later.”

Fine lines deepen as Jarvis allows himself the smallest of smiles, even as he begins to fuss over the dishes again. “As you say. I should get back to wor- sir?”

Howard’s fingers have caught Jarvis’s elbow. He uses it as a lever, turning Jarvis so that his back is pressed against the wet, hard surface of the sink. He surges up on his tip toes and catches the last of Jarvis’s protest on his lips.

Jarvis’s arms enfold him immediately, pulling Howard against the long, lean lines of his body, and their mouths are a soft, wet slide that resonates in Howard’s bones, his marrow liquid and gold. The soul bond sings out a welcome – welcome back – telling him he’s safe, that he’s where he belongs.

Jarvis’s hips roll against his, the kiss hotter, deeper, and when they break apart, he is framed by the picture window that looks out on the grounds, the trees and the sunlight a makeshift halo.

He says, “Howard,” and in the single word, Howard can hear years of love, and longing, and untold patience.

Howard touches Jarvis’s cheek and whispers, “Edwin.”

Every letter, every syllable is a sonnet, a confession, a plea.

And Jarvis must hear it, because he leans down and captures Howard’s mouth again.

They stand there, kissing in the sunshine, the soul bond whispering insistently that they are both finally, _finally_ coming home.

* * *

 

This is how it begins:

 

In a darkened tent on a battlefield too far from both of their homes, Jarvis takes Howard in his arms, and in his wildwood eyes there is a whole universe they’ve yet to find.

**Author's Note:**

> I...haven't seen the last episode of Agent Carter yet. So if Jack dies (I know he gets shot), don't tell me. Pretend it doesn't happen. Mostly because I kind of want to write Thompson/Sousa smut. Idek. 
> 
> About the fic: I love this couple so much. But I also love Ana. I think she's swell. It's the Pepper Potts conundrum. Also, if Howard never gets hitched, barring a weird baby daddy sitcom scenario, my favorite superhero never gets born. SO. Instead I can only write isolated stories about boys being sad and yearning~
> 
> Alas.


End file.
